


Broken Bones

by Katowisp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel (Supernatural) Has Patience, Castiel Has Feelings for Dean Winchester, Castiel Has a Crush on Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean is In Over His Head, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katowisp/pseuds/Katowisp
Summary: Sam notices changes in his brother, Castiel helps them both.





	1. Two-Ply

**Author's Note:**

> A coda to the End, and Hell! Dean Winchester

Disclaimer: Not mine! No, not at all. Just playing with them while out on exercise. Post The End.   
Notes: Super thanks to my awesome beta, Becca. 

Two Ply

 

First there was just one roll. It showed up next to the holy water, and Sam thought nothing of it. They were caught often enough, just them and the wilderness, and having a little toilet paper on hand wasn’t a bad idea. 

The second roll was tucked into the duffle bag, next to a lucky Buddha and a set of Tibetan prayer beads. Sam mentally made note of it, but figured it was just part of Dean’s back up, because Dean had become pretty careful recently about redundancy in his plans.

By the third roll, found while Sam was hunting under the seat for his favorite switchblade, Sam started to think that maybe something was up.

The forth and fifth rolls confirmed it, and Sam wondered if his brother was sick. Sam was pretty sure he would have noticed if his brother suddenly had IBS. And even then, the toilet paper would probably come out about even, not continually building upon itself. 

He decided to mention Dean’s sudden obsession when a twelve pack of super soft two-ply showed up in the trunk. Dean hadn’t even bothered to hide it. (But then, how could he?) He brought a roll into the motel where Dean was bent over an old tome.

“Seriously, Dean? What’s with the toilet paper? Do you know something about killing Lucifer that I don’t? Death by two-ply?” Sam tossed the roll to Dean, who instinctively caught it. Sam expected his brother to look embarrassed or come back with a smart comment. Dean held the roll; looking at it way more thoughtfully than Sam ever felt was due to toilet paper. And did Dean look sad? But then the expression was gone, and Dean threw the roll back.

“Just advice from an old friend. Don’t worry about it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean brushes his teeth a lot more than he used to

__

__

_For the debt I owe, gotta sell my soul_  
'Cause I can't say no, no, I can't say no  
Then my limbs all froze and my eyes won't close  
And I can't say no, I can't say no  
-Billie Eilish

Dean, Sam noticed, had become nearly obsessed with brushing his teeth. 

“Listerine strip?” Dean asked, offering the little green pack up to Sam. 

Sam waved him off. “It’s okay.” 

Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself, Garlic Breath,” Dean said, sliding two or three of the slips of mint into his mouth. He reached for an Altoid. 

No, Sam amended, it wasn’t just teeth brushing. He was obsessed with oral hygiene. This was not something Dean-Before-Hell had been overly concerned with. He brushed his teeth and flossed, sure: once in the morning when he woke up, and again at night, after dinner--if he wasn’t too tired, or if whatever injury he’d incurred that day hadn’t included getting hit in the jaw. 

But this Dean, he brushed at all opportune moments. Sam wondered if Hell had lent itself towards nasty breath. 

This Dean would be studying or laying out a plan (and that was different, too.) and then he’d excuse himself to brush his teeth. And they weren’t quick forays into the bathroom. Dean would stand there, working up a healthy froth of Crest toothpaste, looking vaguely like a rabid dog before he was done. 

Some days more than others were brushing days. Sam began keeping a record, but it was hard finding any sort of pattern. He dedicated himself fully to his research. He considered asking Castiel, because the angel knew things about Dean, about Hell, that Sam would not be privy to. But it seemed like a cheap way out, so he stayed quiet. 

His breakthrough was the day Zachariah gave Dean stomach cancer, and Dean was coughing up blood on the floor. They returned to the home, and Dean bee lined towards the bathroom. 

“I can’t get those onions from lunch off my breath,” Dean said in explanation, squeezing a huge dollop of paste on the brush. 

You didn’t have onions for lunch, Dean,” Sam said. 

Dean rolled his eyes, as if Sam was a freak for tracking what Dean did or didn’t eat. He turned back to the sink, brushing with vigor. 

Dean’s oral maintenance stayed on track after that, until the day a hunt went wrong and he was caught in the face with a rotten two by four. The hit, lucky as it was, knocked a tooth lose, and Dean was spitting up blood. 

That night, Dean brushed his teeth three or four times every hour, tapering off just before he crashed on the motel bed with the lumpy springs and strange stains. 

Sam reviewed his list of incidents. He nearly had enough data to form a correlation. The results were unsettling, though, and Sam was reluctant to decipher as to what that correlation meant. It wasn’t quite so humorous as what Sam had been imagining. 

Sam looked down at his notepad, and over to where Dean was crashed. It’d been over a year, and Sam was only now noticing all the quirks in Dean that weren’t there before; the toilet paper, the tooth brushing. Sam worried that all these signs had been here, but he’d been too obsessed with his own mission to notice Dean. 

It came together one day at lunch. Dean was chewing his hamburger with a little too much vigor. His eyes suddenly widened, and he dropped the burger. He looked stricken, and booked it for the bathroom. Sam, utterly at a loss, stared at the half eaten burger. It was rarer than his brother usually ordered, and the meat was pink. When Dean didn’t come out, Sam worriedly followed him into the bathroom. 

Dean was leaning over a toilet, brushing his teeth. He’d thrown up his lunch, and now he continued to do so, frothy, minty toothpaste forming a foul icing on half digested burger and bile. One hand was pressed against the stall, covering a phone number and a promise for a good time. The other hand was clenched tight around the purple toothbrush, his knuckles pale. He stopped brushing long enough to throw up again. Sam felt his throat ache in sympathy. There was nothing but acid left, and Sam knew it burned. 

“Dean? 

“Bad food,” Dean said weakly. “Stupid diners.” He managed to stand, the toothbrush hanging out the corner of his mouth. 

Sam looked at his brother, saw fear in his eyes that didn’t come the threat of salmonella poisoning. Dean rubbed his face. “You okay?” 

“Just bit my cheek.” Dean said, edging over to the discolored sink so he could wash his hands. He chewed on the toothbrush, like it was some sort of security blanket. The purple handled wagged around in his mouth as he bit on it compulsively. 

As he watched Dean clean his hands, the little pieces started clicking together. It was blood. He couldn’t stand the taste of blood or flesh, Sam realized. 

Sam's stomach turned. “We’ll eat some place better, next time,” Sam offered. “No more low class joints.” 

“Sounds good.” Dean straightened and threw Sam a watery smile. “Pie?” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“I could go for blueberry,” Dean said, pushing past Sam and out of the toilet. Sam stood there for a moment longer, looking at the space Dean had occupied. 

“No raspberry,” Sam told the empty room. His words echoed hollow against the tile. 

He clicked the light and left. 


	3. The Fine Art of Poisoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam notices that Dean won't eat the Halloween candy

October in Wilmington, North Carolina, was crisp, but not too chilly. Old Southern homes lined ancient boulevards, heavy with willows and oaks and Spanish Moss that dripped from weathered bark. 

Sam had insisted they stop in the old port town. They were in North Carolina, anyway, and Sam stressed the importance of taking it a little easy these days. Dean didn’t comment, but he didn’t complain, either. Wilmington was heavy with its share of haunts, so if they got bored, they could keep themselves occupied. Castiel, who was helping them locate Pestilence, hadn’t separated ways yet. Sam thought he might be lonely. 

They found a Bed and Breakfast tucked in among the neighborhood just off the waterfront. The prices were reasonable as it was off-season, and the owner, Mrs. Mitchell, kept to herself. She kept throwing Castiel looks that Sam couldn’t decipher, but she was quiet and kind, and they didn’t see a lot of her.

“Too frilly,” Was Dean’s only comment on the place.

Sam excused himself to find lore at the local bookstore on the frequency of ghost lights in the state. When he returned, he found Dean and Castiel at the kitchen table, an entire mixed bag of candy spread out on the polished mahogany top. Dean was sliding chocolates around, dividing them up by type. He looked up when Sam entered. 

“Hey, Sam! Just showing Castiel why Halloween doesn’t always suck.” Dean waved his hand over the candy, as if he’d just performed a magic trick. 

Sam rolled his eyes and laughed. “You’ll make yourself sick,” he said, heading towards the bathroom. When he came back out, Dean was looking at Castiel a little too intently. “What’s going on?”

“Just having a talk,” Dean said, “about chocolate.” He stood up suddenly. “Let’s get some food.” 

Dean grabbed the keys, and Sam followed him out, noticing the conspicuous lack of wrappers. 

0o0o0o0o0o

Castiel stared at the bacon cheeseburger Dean had ordered for him. Dean was jabbering happily about the blessings of bacon and real grease, when Castiel’s eyes met Sam’s. Castiel, for all his failure at operating his human body, was able to give Sam a very wry look and Sam burst out laughing. Dean tapered off.

“Weirdoes,” Dean declared, taking a giant bite out of his cheeseburger and rolling his eyes. 

They finished eating and left, Castiel’s dinner untouched. The sun was just setting, and children in brightly colored costumes had begun popping up on the streets like so many ghosts. They swung pillowcases or plastic pumpkin heads, their happy chatter filling the air. 

“I want to inspect this city,” Castiel announced. Sam and Dean shared a look. 

"Do you mean walk the city?" 

"Yes, that is what I said. It is a nice evening,” Castiel explained further.

Dean looked thoughtful at that, and remained quiet. Sam knew he was missing something, but unlike all the secrets in their lives over the last few years, this was something private but not harmful. 

Castiel walked ahead of the brothers, and it was as though he was someplace else entirely. His gaze was distant, his expression, as usual, impassive. But Sam could see wistfulness there, too, and as he watched the angel, he suddenly thought of all the things that he, too, had lost. 

This war was not easy on any of them. In their own way, they had all helped orchestrate the current situation. Dean had broken the first seal, and Sam the last, but Castiel had nudged them along at the guidance of his higher. They had all been ignorant, but that did not make them blameless.

Sam grinned. They were in the same lot as an angel. There was something funny about that. Would they be known one day to be on par with Adolf Eichmann? When people referred to them, would it be to point out the banality of evil? 

No, they had saved a lot of people, too. Sam stood by that, regardless of what else happened. 

“There are still beautiful days,” Castiel announced suddenly. A woman herding a witch and a skeleton guided them away from the trio, giving Castiel a strange look. Castiel looked up at the gently turning leaves, gold and red catching the street and house lights. “Even during war.”

“Well, sure,” Sam said. “The world doesn’t stop.”

“But it means it still belongs to Him.”

Dean snorted and opened his mouth to say something, but stayed quiet when Sam threw him a look. 

When they returned to the B&B, Mrs. Mitchell had already turned in for the evening, leaving the front porch light on and the door unlocked. Sam excused himself to the bathroom, and Dean and Castiel headed back into the kitchen.

When Sam got back, Dean had no less than four pieces of candy shoved into the corners of his mouth. He gave Sam and gooey grin, chocolate dripping in a pool of spit at the corner of his mouth. 

“I’ll bwe raugh backhe,” Dean announced, heading off in the direction of the bathroom. 

Castiel looked up from where he was sitting at the table, his hands splayed out in front of him. He gave Sam a measured look. Whereas before the candy had been relatively untouched now Dean had made a pretty good dent into it. 

“What’s going on, Cas?” Sam asked, taking the third seat. 

“Your brother asked me if I had X-Ray eyes so that I could make sure there was no razors in the candy.” 

“Razors in the candy?” Sam looked at the candy, all packaged, and fresh from the store. 

“It is not within my power,” Castiel said, ignoring Sam’s question. “Angels can do many things, but we are not blessed with ‘X-Ray eyes.’”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him they were razor-free,” Castiel said. He gave Sam a pointed look. It hadn’t been a lie—there were no razors in the candy—but there had been a little bit of truth by assumption involved. Sam looked back at Castiel in surprise. 

“Why would he think there were razors in the candy?” He repeated. 

Castiel looked at Sam a long time. They could hear the toilet flush and the sink turn on. “Hell knew your brother’s penchant towards candy,” Castiel said just before Dean’s footsteps could be heard over the old floorboards. “Hell enjoys corrupting the things you love most.”

Dean came back into the warmly lit kitchen, plopping down as he simultaneously ripped open a Reeses. “You gonna try a piece?” He asked, holding the confection to Castiel.

Castiel waved it off. “It is not something I crave, and I am not fond of sweet things.”

Dean shrugged. “Suit yourself. Sam?” Dean pushed a small pile of assorted chocolates to Sam. 

Sam managed a weak smile that Dean didn’t notice. He picked up a foiled piece that had a grinning pumpkin. The chocolate was a little stale, and had that funny taste that generic Halloween candy had, but he grabbed another one anyway. “Want milk?” He asked. 

Dean snorted. “Are the Ghostfacers dweebs? Of course I want milk! C’mon!” Dean cracked open a Snickers. Sam found a jug of bottled milk in the fridge. Sam poured two large glasses and set them down on the polished table.

“Looks like we got off easy this year,” Dean said cheerfully, taking a healthy gulp. When he sat the cup down, a milk mustache clung to the fine hairs of his upper lip. 

“Looks like,” Sam agreed. The night was till young. 

He wished he had something a little stronger than milk to drink.


	4. Tomorrow Ends up in Shackles Before it Even Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean had stopped maintaining Baby. Sam finds out why.

The Impala had seen better days. She was running a little rougher, and her purr wasn’t as smooth as Sam was used to. Sam hadn’t done as good a job as he’d wanted on her upkeep. Ruby had actually been better about that than he was. 

“It’s a beautiful thing, this car,” she’d told him, waxing it carefully. Sam didn’t ask how she knew about cars, and she didn’t tell him. Sam was pretty sure that Dean wouldn’t care for her being the one taking care of his baby, but he was in Hell, and he didn’t have a lot of say in the matter. 

But since returning from hell, Dean didn’t dedicate the same amount of time to her upkeep as he once had. Sam had caught him, more than once, standing at the hood of the car, staring down into her engine, his toolbox sitting open beside him. Finally, reluctantly, he’d close the hood, close the toolbox, and quietly put it back in the trunk. 

Sam wondered if Dean had forgotten how to fix his car. But Sam was sure that even forty years in hell couldn’t take the mechanic out of Dean. Dean had bonded with his car. It was his stone garden. For months following Dad’s death, he’d been there, rebuilding it. It had been metaphorical. It wasn’t just the car he was putting back together. 

But now, when Dean needed it most, for whatever reason, he couldn’t do it. 

Sam decided to leave it alone. Dean was working through it. And Sam didn’t know what to do. Dean wouldn’t talk to him, and Sam couldn’t commiserate. “Hey, Dean, I totally feel your pain. Forty years is a long time to be in Hell. Also, torturing sucks.”

Then, on an early morning in December while Sam was hitting up the library, he finished his research early. He was walking down the street; hands bundled up in his jacket when he came upon the local garage. Through the window, he could see Dean waiting in a plastic chair. His purple toothbrush was dangling from his mouth and he was staring at the wall deliberately. There was a mechanic in the garage giving the Impala an oil change. 

On a wintery day in Wyoming, when the ground was frozen and the sky swollen and black, Sam caught a glimpse of Dean again with his car. He and the Impala were shadows against the white landscape. Dean looked despondent; his shoulders slumped. Sam had made a trip to inquire about the action of someone who seemed suspiciously like Pestilence. 

Sam walked down the remote sidewalk, slowing as he saw Dean standing in the street. Castiel was there all the sudden, too. Sam edged closer. He hadn’t been spotted, and he felt ridiculous eavesdropping on Dean, but he didn’t know how to approach the subject.

“Your brother is worried about you,” Castiel told Dean. Dean touched a gloved hand to the hood of the car. 

“About what?” His words came out in a puff of condensation. 

“You no longer take care of your car. He notices. You should talk to Sam.” Castiel was relaxed around Dean in a way that wasn't around anybody else. There was an understanding between them that Sam didn’t have; that he was afraid of losing (that he had already lost) with Dean. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean said shortly. His cheeks were pink and his nose a ruddy,and he looked so alive. Sam edged closer. 

“The tools that you used to torture people in hell, the things they used to torture you with—that was because they knew what you loved. They wanted to corrupt it. It is their way.” Castiel’s voice was quiet, but it carried over the snow and Sam could just make out the words. 

“It worked,” Dean said. 

“That is still the car you love, and those are the tools you need to fix it. They are tools; you define their use. Your car needs you.” 

Castiel, Sam realized, knew Dean in a way that Sam could not. He had watched Dean for forty years before he had rescued him. Sam had known Dean his whole life, but Castiel had known him longer. 

Dean stared at the toolbox. Reluctantly, he reached for a wrench. 

“Fix her, Dean.” 

“I twisted a man’s fingers until they were broken with this tool. He screamed, and screamed. I did it again, the next day, and the day after that.” Dean put the wrench back. He went to close the box, but Castiel stopped him. “When I used it on his….” Dean trailed off. “He broke.”

“Not with this one. This one, you’ve used to fix your…baby,” Castiel’s face contorted slightly as he tried to use Dean’s word usage and sound normal (he failed, Sam felt, but it was close enough.) “for the past ten years.” 

Dean stared at the wrench. “That was fifty years ago. I put her back together. Bobby said it wasn’t worth the effort.”

“She’s beautiful. Who taught you how to use it?”

“Dad. He said it was important to know how to fix the things the mattered; that you can’t count on others to do it.”

The open toolbox stared up at them. 

“Do you trust someone else, now?” 

Dean didn’t answer for so long, the Sam thought he wouldn’t. “You.” He finally said, in a voice so quiet that Sam had to strain to hear. He saw Castiel’s face fracture briefly, before his impassivity replaced it. 

Carefully, gently, Castiel reached into the toolbox and took the wrench out. “Tell me what to do.”

“Just—you’ll need to loosen the bolt. It’s too tight. We can probably use the screwdriver after that. I have the connection you need.” Dean shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Snow had begun to gather in his hair, but he ignored it. Castiel set himself to the task, and in a motion of uncharacteristic clumsiness, he dropped the wrench. 

“I’ve never used this tool before.” Castiel said by way of explanation, reaching into the bowels of the hood to fish the wrench back out. Dean looked on in mild annoyance. 

“Just what Baby needs,” He huffed. “More stuff dropped inside her.”

When Castiel finally retrieved the wrench, he began by twisting the bolt to the right. 

“No no, you’re tightening it. ‘Lefty loosy, righty tighty.’” He instructed. 

Castiel dropped the first bolt in Dean's hand, working on the second one. “It’s snowing heavily. We should delay this task until tomorrow.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You can’t halfass a project.” 

“Another of your father’s rules?” Castiel glanced up. He caught Sam’s eyes, and Sam started, guilty that he bad been caught. The angel gave him the slightest nod. 

Sam stayed. 

“We just have to take the casing off. I need to take a look at something. We can put everything back after.”

“I have grown weary of this project,” Castiel announced, standing straight. “It upsets my lower back muscles. They ache.” 

“Well, you gotta put the bolt back, at least.” Dean looked up at the dark clouds. “Looks like it’s gonna be a bad one. Hope Sam got enough to eat.”

Sam had--enough to last them a few days--and a bottle of Jack for Dean, although, it probably wasn’t enough. He put the groceries down in the snow and wrapped his arms around his body to keep warm. His feet were cold. Dean remained oblivious to his presence, but Castiel caught him a look before returning his attention to his brother. 

“No, I don't.” Castiel raised his brows at Dean. He stood impassively under the snow. 

“Yes, you do.” Dean crossed his arms. Castiel mirrored him.

“I do not. We may close the hood, and I will return to this project when the weather is better. I’ll keep the bolt in my pocket.”

Dean glared. “You disappear without warning,” he said, with more hurt than he intended, “and I need to put that bolt back in.” 

“So, do it.” Castiel held the bolt out in one hand, the wrench in the other. Dean stared at both, and then at the car. The snow gathered between them. 

“You started the project.” Dean finally said. “You should finish it.”

“I have already stated that I have no intention to do so.” 

“Sam can—“ Dean started. 

“Sam is shopping, as you have decided grocery stores are too crowded. He is fighting the other shoppers for bread and milk. We can go inside, and you can read your Adult Magazines. We will not be driving in this snow.”

Dean started at the offered tools for a long time. Finally, reluctantly, he reached first for the bolt, and then the wrench. With shaky hands, he stared into the hood of his car. Licking dry lips, Dean set about putting the bolt back. When he was done, he shut the hood wordlessly. They went inside. 

Sam walked around the block once, and then twice. We he finally came back to the motel, Dean was sitting in the only chair and staring out the window. His hands were clenched on his lap. Castiel was sitting on one of the beds, pretending to watch TV, but actually watching Dean. 

Dean looked up at Sam’s arrival, a look of relief crossing his face before he stood and intercepted the bags. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and immediately poured a serving into the cheap plastic cups the motel offered. He shook an empty cup at Sam, who shook his head. 

When Dean had drunk the bottle and passed out, Sam and Castiel were left alone, the blaring commercials and Dean’s raucous snoring their only companions. 

“Thank you,” Sam said, long after Dean had passed out. 

“It seems being human is a difficult prospect. My Father did not make it easy for you.” 

Sam often felt Castiel was judging him for the choices he was making. But the look he gave him now was sorrowful, and that, as well as the quiet moment he had seen the angel share with his brother, made some of the reluctance he shared with the angel melt away. 

“Incredibly difficult,” Sam agreed. Castiel gave him a measured look. 

“It is easy to judge others, when one holds the moral high ground.” 

“Do _you_ hold the moral high ground?” Sam asked, when Episode I went to commercial. All the local news was focused on the snowstorm—a rarity for the South. The local government was unable to handle the snowfall, and the state was calling on help from states more equipped. They had flipped off the local news and were now grudgingly watching the first Star Wars prequel. 

It was, after all, better than silence. 

Castiel watched the commercial advertising a local diner. Badly computerized hamburgers floated across the screen while an obese male spoke enthusiastically about the wonderful home-cooked meals. “No, I don’t.” 

They fell into a silence that, for the first time, wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.


	5. Am I not Merciful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas, post season 5, episode 6

Castiel was not an expert in human emotions. He could not understand their passions about anything; could not understand the absolute sorrow that drove them towards suicide, or the vast rage that could make them murder another human being.

Castiel understood necessity, though, and it was necessity that had driven him to try and take Jesse’s life. It had been a merciful act. Even though he had felt doubt, (These days, he felt that a lot. It was not a comfortable feeling.) when Jesse had looked at him with those giant, confused eyes, he was still resolved in his action. The boy was the Anti-Christ and the angels had no weapon against him. 

Which is why he was confused that Dean was so angry with him. 

Dean glared at him over the top of the Impala. They had returned to the motel and were the only ones in the parking lot. Sam had wisely and discreetly dismissed himself and left Castiel to face down Dean. 

“Dean, I don’t understand your anger.”

“C’mon, Cas! He was a boy, and you were just going to kill him!” The light in the parking lot was pale, casting Dean’s face half in mottled blue and half in darkness. He looked ominous. Cas had always understood why even the demons were afraid of him. 

“He is the Anti-Christ. He is half demon.”

“And he is half human, and that’s the half that counts! He’s been raised as a human boy, not a demon! If that boy had been truly evil, don’t you think he would’ve killed you instead of turning you into a toy?”

A toy. That had been uncomfortable. He’d heard everything. Had heard Dean deny him. He didn’t know what to make of that. But then, he couldn’t fault him for it, either. 

Even Jesus had been denied. 

“Dean…”

“If you decide a boy’s life before we even allow him to make choice, how are you better than Zachariah? He doesn’t believe in free choice, either. Sam….” Dean trailed off. The sharp edge of his anger had faded, and something that was not quite despair replaced it. Dean refocused on Castiel. 

“Wasn’t God’s greatest gift to humans the ability for free will? Would you have killed Eve, if you had known what it would have started?”

Castiel started. He knew Dean had an expansive knowledge of all mythologies, including Christianity, but he rarely mentioned it. He opened his mouth to speak but Dean continued.

“If we judge men before they act, then it’s over, Cas. The human race is over.”

“Destiny—“ Castiel began, but the word sounded hollow in his ears.

“We changed it once,” Dean said, his eyes meeting Castiel’s. “It’s anybody’s game now.”

Castiel looked over the car at this man he couldn’t understand. He was trying, but Dean was particularly inclined towards all the passions of man. It was, Castiel acknowledged, what made him the best weapon they had. 

“I won’t be so hasty again,” Castiel finally said. And he meant it. Dean looked at him evenly before smiling. The edges of his lips twitched upward, the corners of his eyes crinkled just a little. Castiel found himself responding with a small smile of his own. 

“You were a pretty funny toy, though.”

“It was very cramping. I am glad he didn’t turn me to glass. I fell from that mantel no fewer than two times.” 

“Well, that’s life around here,” Dean said, heading inside. 

“Indeed it is,” Castiel said, following Dean into the old motel. Sam looked up as they entered, relief flooding his face. The smile he gave them made him look much younger. He threw a beer to Dean who caught it with practiced ease. 

“You want one?” Sam asked, offering a can up to the angel.

“No, I am content to watch,” Castiel said, settling into the chair. It was true Sam had made the wrong choices. But so had Castiel.

**Author's Note:**

> Old fics I'm updating and uploading. If not here, then where?


End file.
